Phone Call
by Tofania
Summary: One shot. The last phone call between Sherlock and John, told from John's point of view. Every thought he had had, all the things he had wished he had said but didn't...


This is bollocks.

Complete, utter bollocks. Oh, Sherlock knew along all, of course he did, so what the hell is he playing at? Having someone send me to Mrs. Hudson when she's perfectly fine. He's up to something, and he doesn't want me to know about. Just as usual.

But he's been acting strange.

Well, he always acts strange. But he's been…different. Ever since Moriarty's trial, he's changed. He's not so powerful anymore, I suppose. He always seemed so untouchable, so aloof, so detached. As if he was above everyone else and no one could hurt him. As if he wasn't even human.

But now he is so human. So painfully human. And he didn't even care about his reputation or what Scotland Yard or Kitty Riley or whoever thought of him. No, he didn't care about any of the things Moriarty has been spreading until I talked about it.

And that look he gave me…it was as if he had to be sure that I believed in him, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

Cab ride is over. I'm in front of St. Bart's. I pay the fee and get out, when my phone rings.

Who could it be? Mrs. Hudson, Mike, Lestrade? It couldn't be Sherlock. He never calls. He only texts.

I read the caller ID and blink in disbelief. I answer the phone.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

What? What is he talking about? "No, I'm coming in-"

"Just…DO as I ask."

It was the desperation in his voice that made me stop and realize something's wrong. Made me realize I had no choice. "Where?"

"Stop there."

"Sherlock…"

"Okay, look up, I'm on the rooftop."

I catch my breath.

"Oh god…"

I thought of his voice, every word it formed, every vibration out of place, every breath out of time, and I look up at the rooftop and see him standing there, see his silhouette and not his face but I don't need to see him to know he's crying, and all of I sudden I realize that this is wrong, all wrong, that this is not the great Sherlock Holmes speaking, this is not the brilliant detective, the god amongst men, this was a man, a human being, a human being who needed me.

And somewhere deep in my subconscious I get the vague feeling that everything that is said on this phone call will be forever imprinted in memory.

I don't know why.

"I…I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

Something is going off in the back of my mind, something like alarm bells, quiet now but getting louder, making my shoulders tense and my heart beat faster as I got the vague notion that…that…that what, I don't know.

"What's going on?" I breathe.

"An apology. It's all true."

For a moment I am paralyzed. "What?"

"Everything they said about me. I...invented Moriarty."

What?

What am I supposed to think? Am I supposed to stand, shocked and appalled by this betrayal, with memories of past cases, past deductions, past miracles flashing in my mind?

No.

He would never lie to me.

"Why are you saying this?" This is beginning to feel like a dream, an awful dream…

"I'm a _fake_."

No, no, no, this is all wrong, this is all wrong…the alarm bells ring louder and I swallow away pain as I hear the anguish in his voice. Something is broken and I need to fix it. "Sherlock-"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade…I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson…and Molly…"

Oh god, no, what is he saying…

Please stop, just stop, please don't let this be what I think it is….please just come down, let me look at your face, look you in the eye, let me _believe_ in you, just let me, for once, just let me _know_.

"…In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I…_created_ Moriarty…for my own purposes…"

I can't listen to him anymore, I can't just stand here listening to this rubbish, even though I know he's lying, I don't why and I don't care anymore, all I want is to believe, all I want his to show him that I believe.

I grit my teeth. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up, the first time we met, _the first time we met, _you knew all about my sister, right?"

And then he says the words I never thought he would say.

"Nobody could be that clever."

I don't hesitate.

"_You could._"

The two words echo in my mind like a dream and I hear quiet laughter on the other end and I smile sadly.

If there was anyone in the world that could be that clever, it would be you, Sherlock, don't you understand that? You can lie to anyone, but you can't lie to me, please, just stop…

"I…researched you. Before we met. Discovered everything I could to impress you. It's just a trick, a magic trick…"

I shut my eyes tightly. Why is he saying this, why is he doing this, why, why, why… I shake my head even though I know he can't see me. And I look up at the silhouette on the top of that rooftop and all I want is for this to be over. All I want is to sit at home in the flat reading the newspaper while Sherlock is banging away on his bloody violin, all I want is to take a cab with him to Scotland Yard after a call from Lestrade, all I want is to be going on some wild goose chase in the back-alleys of London with him, all I want is Sherlock, not this, but _Sherlock_.

"This phone call…"

I look around in the empty parking lot, up at the roof of St. Bart's, at the barely visible silhouette, and suddenly feel very alone.

"It's my note."

All the thoughts in my head die down but for one.

"That's what people do, don't they?"

Please don't let this be what I think it is.

"Leave a note."

No, this can't be happening. "Leave a note when?"

And for one second, it is so impossibly quiet, and for one second I hear him breathing on the other end and I wish for nothing else in the world than to be up there with him, and in the back of my head the alarm bells stop ringing and there is only absolute silence.

"Goodbye, John."

"_No, don't-_"

The line goes dead.

"SHERLOCK!" I scream. The silence shatters into a thousand pieces as my voice echoes throughout the empty asphalt, throughout my empty mind. "Sher…"

A million thoughts a minute, _no, no, no, what is he doing, stop, stop, this is all wrong, this is all wrong,_ but they are all drowned out by what I see, as I watch the silhouette fall, fall, fall…

And I find myself falling too, spiraling down into some strange world that I didn't even know existed, where Sherlock is only human, flesh and blood, just as mortal as all the normal people, just as mortal as me.

I start walking, in a daze, forcing my feet to move forward, hoping to God that this is not real, and catch a glimpse of a crowd of people surrounding…

When something hits me from the side. I fall on my face and I fleetingly remember my metaphor about spiraling down, realizing its literal connotations.

A cyclist. I can't think. I can't comprehend. I can't decipher. All I can do is move, to drag myself up and keep going, to believe.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through, let me come through please…" I don't what I'm saying anymore, just anything to let me get past, anything for me to see him. "_No, no, he's my friend, he's my friend…"_

Oh god.

_It's all wrong, it's all wrong, it's all wrong_…I instinctively reach for his hand, to feel his wrist, check for his pulse. How many times have I done this? Hundreds of time, two fingers on the patient's wrist, no pulse, then they're dead. So many times there had been no pulse. So many times I just couldn't save them.

But never had I felt like this. Never had I felt such emptiness.

Such silence.

_All wrong, all wrong, all wrong…_

I am aware of my mouth moving, making words and sounds, but nothing else, until they turn him over.

And everything is so crisp and so clear as I see them turning him over.

And I can see his hair dragging through the red blood, and his pale hands lifted on to his chest, and his blue eyes, wide, wide open…and all the hope that I did not even know I had in me died with Sherlock.

"Oh god no…"

And then everything became blurry and all I could see was red blood and white skin and blue eyes, _red white blue red white blue red white blue_, like some macabre patriotism, and his eyes…

So _dead_.

They wheeled him away.

And I stood there. And I watched. And I said that I was fine, I'm fine now, really, I'm okay.

I was vaguely aware that it had begun raining. It was funny, how time had seemed to slow down. Just a few minutes ago it had felt like time was speeding up, going from normal to dangerous to…to _this_.

And I realized that it was all over. It was over now, and I could go back to the flat and read the newspaper, but there would be no violin. I could take a cab to Scotland Yard, but there would be no case, and I could go on wild goose chases in the back-alleys of London, but there would be no Sherlock.

And then I decided to stop thinking. There is no point.

My best friend is dead. He died, and I was there, watching, not doing anything.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

Sherlock. Dead. The combination of the words seem unfamiliar. How could Sherlock die? Sherlock could never die, Sherlock is different, he is brilliant, how could he die like everyone else?

We had so much time.

The rain pelts my face and I sit down, waiting.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I get the vague feeling that whatever it is I am waiting for is going to happen someday.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I get the vague feeling that if I wait long enough, maybe not everything is lost.

And so I start my waiting with blood on the ground and rain in the sky and dread in my heart.


End file.
